Tools of the Trade

It's been over a month since my last confession...I mean entry (flashback to being a Catholic there) and my excuse is simple - I've just been too damn busy to get back here!

Ridiculous, isn't it?

After giving myself the gift of finishing my first draft I let myself get buried, once again, beneath the many layers of my life. I feel like a million tiny fingers are tugging at my skin; wanting, pulling, demanding, needing. It's exhausting.

It's also validating and rewarding, to some extent. These fingers belong to my teenage sons, my students, my family in England, my pets, my friends and yes, some of them belong to me.  These fingers remind me that I am surrounded by people who make my life worth waking up to. While some days feel heavier than others, some are brightened by surprises that leap out of the darkest of shadows.

One such surprise came last week, when my high school friend called to tell me she had found a house. After years of struggling to raise her three children in rented accommodations, she finally has a place she can count on. When she emailed me a link to the realtor's virtual tour I found myself surfing around the rooms of her new home. It was magical! I felt like I was there, walking through those wonderful rooms, right beside her.

It doesn't matter that she lives on the other side of the Atlantic. I've seen her new place and it rocks!

A second ray of light came in the form of a phone call from another high school friend. She wants to come and visit me in July. As I've not seen her in over 6, maybe 7 years, that's absolutely fabulous news. I'm so glad we refused listen to those god-fearing teachers who said our friendship was "a terrible thing" because we got busted for writing notes to each other in French class.

Okay, so there were a few creative comments about our class mates. And perhaps we made a snide remark or two about the frustrated old prune that was our headmistress. But nothing we wrote at age twelve was bad enough to dedicate an entire assembly to shaming us publicly for our "wicked words".

I like to blame Ms H. for my writer's block, on occasion, although I don't believe that our "evil notes" really had the power to condemn our souls into eternal damnation. Nor do I believe that it was necessary for Ms H. to hurl our writing into the flames of the sanitary towel incinerator.

Wouldn't she just turn in her grave (she MUST be dead by now) to know that this friend, whom she thought was such a bad influence on me, is now the inspiration for one of the lead characters of my novel?

Okay, back to that novel. Well, I've been reading my first draft and it's a very interesting experience.

The characters feel so much more, what's the word? Full? I don't remember writing the words that gave them their color, their accents and my god, what attitudes! Who are these people? Where do their voices come from? It's so strange to listen to them chatting back and forth, to hear what they have to say about the world that we created, together.

Talk about flashbacks! I wonder if all that magic mushroom tea, from my university days, can be credited for opening up my mind enough to let these characters in? I'm sure they weren't always in there....

I didn't mean to digress so completely from the title of this entry - I bought a new lap top last month. Yep. Got an email from Staples advertising President's Day specials. So, in the spirit of honoring Obama's stimulus efforts, I invested in an HP Pavilion. I really wanted to buy a Mac, but that will have to wait for more affluent times. The HP is fine, for now.

Instead of rewriting my novel I've been learning how to use Windows 7 and discovering that Microsoft 7 is actually a very intuitive program that thinks very much like a Mac...I know, weird, isn't it? This new distraction was so delicious that I lost myself in online tutorials for days. I also spent endless hours copying all my files from my beloved, aging iBook to the HP.

Not to keep harping on the magic mushrooms, but I swear my iBook knew there was an intruder in the house because after 7 years of flawless service it started freaking out the very day I bought the new lap top home. My screen began freezing then it refused to reboot altogether. I did the usual rescue routine: drew a couple of Reiki symbols over the keyboard, slapped the screen a few times, then yanked out the cord and the battery. That worked.

Now I have to spend 20 minutes convincing my iBook that I still think it's amazing before it will deign to boot up for me, then it lets me save a few files to my thumb drive before throwing another hissy fit. We seem to have fallen into a pretty workable routine. It just takes hours to accomplish what used to take seconds.

I don't think I'll ever have the heart to permanently unplug it...even if it does need an ethernet cable to get online.

Now if I could only figure out how to transfer my Quicktime version of "Here's to the Crazy Ones" Apple ad. from my iBook to the HP. The Mac to Pc files just won't translate and it was so easy to download it back in '97!

Hang on - I just found it on YouTube. If you haven't seen the ad here it is:
Think Different Apple Ad - Original version

It's such a great reminder that round pegs in square holes are good things...and that "the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world are the ones who do."

Cheers to you, if you're crazy :-)

I did it :-) !!!

That's right - I completed the first draft of my novel.

To be honest, it was a bit of a non-event. I was so busy shoveling snow and clearing out the basement in preparation for a teen-packed New Year's Eve party that I didn't fully appreciate the fact that I'd met a goal I'd been chasing for a decade.

Of course, after the snow stopped falling, the earth began to shake and all eyes turned to Haiti, especially mine.

For several days I felt paralyzed by the devastation and horror of the high definition images sweeping into my home. Absorbing each gory detail with a writer's eye, I downloaded the unfolding events, holding my breath each time a possible survivor was located.

It took me until now to sift through the files that have crystallized in my brain. A dead baby lies on top of an endless pile of rotting corpses. Parents scream at the concrete rubble in the hopes of hearing their child's cry. Sounds of anger, frustration and desperation.

I wasn't prepared for the eruption of emotion this earthquake resurrected in me. I was unable to leave my couch, turn off the television or just turn away. I couldn't pretend it wasn't happening.

Yesterday I poured my anxiety onto the page and wrote a poem about it. I had to do something other than text a donation.

I will publish this poem in the Winter issue of CapeWomenOnline.com and ask the readers to continue donating to the ClintonBushHaitiFund long after the reporters have left town. This is all I can do. I know it's not enough. But it's better than doing nothing.

Today I finished writing an article about completing my novel. It felt so good to think about something inspiring and I was reminded that I'd met the challenge I'd set myself at the beginning of this blog.

It also prompted me to set myself a new goal - to complete my first rewrite by the end of the summer.

I've had almost a month to let my first draft simmer in the back of my mind. It's time to get back to work and face the new journey that lies ahead.

"Only when it's dark enough can you see the stars"

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

 

Please click on this link to make a donation to the ClintonBushHaitiFund

Dreaming of a White Christmas

There was less than an inch of snow on the ground when I went to bed last night - when I woke up the entire neighborhood was buried beneath a flawless white blanket over twelve inches thick.

The weather teams haven't decided if they can officially call it the "Blizzard of '09" ( how the love their fancy names) but it would be impossible to venture out until after the roads are plowed.

Until then, I am happy to stay warm and toasty in my pajamas and watch the wind whip the white powder across my gardens.

I should be writing. I am so close to reaching my goal of 100,000 words by December 31st, but here I am, in full procrastination mode. Why? Where do I start?

Prior to this last week I was in a wonderful rhythm of working, writing and sleeping.

The usual avoidance techniques had been well and truly defeated by my determination to complete this single goal that I set for myself. My fingers were flying across my newly acquired wireless keyboard (thank you Logitech) as my characters dictated their stories at breakneck speed.

My eyes had abandoned their protest of the tiny text on my iBook screen since I installed a large monitor that made it possible for me to write without having my lap top anywhere near my lap. No more hot legs or nauseating vibrations.

So what's the problem?

I'm not sure, and I don't think I should waste time trying to figure it out.

There are the usual culprits to blame:

- over-scheduling myself to make up for the upcoming Holiday break when I'll have two 4-day weekends in a row! What luxury!

- the incessant "nipping to the store" on my way to and from work to buy gifts, cards, wrapping supplies.

- deciding who to cross off my Christmas card list and which new names to add.

- baking pumpkin muffins, cookies and stick-to-your-ribs dinners to help pile on the internal layers that mother nature thinks we need during the cold winter months - maybe someone should tell her we have fleece blankets and furnaces nowadays?

- then there's the real creative monster - the finish-line-is-finally-in-sight monster that lunges into your path just when you think you are going to make it

Yeah, that's the one I suspect I'm dancing with as I watch another episode of House, CSI Miami, or Masterpiece Theater. I have all these shows saved to my DVR so I could watch them AFTER I complete my first draft. But I still find myself snuggling into my over-sized chair with my super soft blanket and glass of Pinot Noir for yet another few hours of staring at the flat screen, instead of the monitor.

I don't know if we'll have a snow day tomorrow. I guess that depends upon whether or not I dig out my car before it gets dark. 

The snow pants, gloves, jackets and boots are piled by the door next to the shovels. There's at least 2 hours worth of shoveling to do just to clear the driveway.

I could pretend that it's okay to ignore the fact that I'm wasting a perfect opportunity to get my novel written this afternoon, but my characters are sitting on my shoulders and literally whining like children, telling me to JUST WRITE.

They've been at it since I woke up to this winter wonderland, when they squealed their delight at the picture perfect scenes lying just beyond my snow framed windows. Their unconstrained excitement reminded me of my children on Christmas Eve, thrilled by the magic surrounding them in the form of fairy lights, candy canes and mysterious colorful gifts tucked under the tree. I guess I've never spent the Holidays with my characters before. They were probably buried beneath my endless To Do lists and the uncompromising "I'm way too busy to write" mantra that usually accompanies me in December.

But here we are, on a gorgeous snowy afternoon, talking to each other.

If I could ask Santa for a special gift this year it would be the gift of completion. I want to cross the finish line, once and for all, and leave my creative monsters in the dust behind me.

That said, I'm off to write - after I bribe my sons with Egg Nog and cookies to go out there and dig out my car!

A Room of My Own

I chose the Chatham Room of the Beach Rose Inn as the location for my mini writer's retreat because of the little seating area in the corner of the bedroom. Little did I know how pivotal a role this beautiful room would play when I finally decided that I was ready to blast through years of writer's block.

It wasn't the plug-in fireplace, or the Victorian styled lamp that captured my imagination - it was the idea of having somewhere to write that looked comfortable and private.

What I didn't tell you in my previous entry was how I created the perfect nest to nurture the writing child within me. I had packed my tool kit with all the ammunition I could find to do battle with my creative monsters. These tools were set up around my room within an hour of my arrival.

My printer was plugged into the socket behind my chair and the ream of recycled paper was opened.

The box containing years of novel notes
(both scribbled and printed) was organized with small post-it stickies. My word count color chart was placed on top of the pretend wood stove. It clearly showed me that I was only half way to my goal of 100,000 words.


My blue writing candle was set on one of the nesting tables opposite my wing back chair, along with a DVD about a mustang sanctuary and copy of Writer's Digest telling me to "Write Your Novel in 2009".
 
I cleared the antique hair brush and comb set from the top of the dresser (which concealed a TV that I never used) and laid out a display of crystals, wine, water and a photograph of John Cusack - hey, with his eyes on you all day you'd want to stay on task too!

Let's review: a  hot tub in the garden, red wine, home made chocolate, my trusted iBook (with thumb drive to back up all files) and one of my favorite actors  playing guardian to my writing schedule - what more could a girl possibly ask for?

John Cusack in person perhaps?

I felt like a child as I arranged my favorite writing tools around me, allowing myself the glorious privilege of unreserved indulgence.

I sat in the chair, then got up again to stuff a pillow behind my back. Moments after I began the unfamiliar task of moving my fingers around the yellowing keys of my lap top I decided I needed to pee.

It took me some time to settle into a rhythm of writing that did not include jumping up and down every five seconds for a pencil, my fluffy slippers, a glass of water, or a prolonged conversation with my ten inch teddy bear, who was also witnessing my evasion techniques from the seat of a wooden stool by the window.

Any fantasy that I may have had about writing brand new pages was soon dispelled by the reality of the continual review then edit cycle. I found myself reading over chapters I had written so long ago that I didn't even recognize the writing as my own. It was almost 4pm before I realized that I was hungry for lunch.

I must have been a girl scout in a past life because I'd packed whole wheat bread, peanut butter, banana's and hot chocolate packets for Wednesday and Thursday's lunch. I ate in my chair with my lap top opened on my knee.



I was officially in the flow of writing, communicating with characters who had hounded me relentlessly to just show up and listen to what they had to say. Their voices grew louder as my fingers became used to flying over the keys. I was honestly startled when I did a word count. I found a pencil and shaded in the space between 50 and 60,000 words.

I hit a wall when I had to write a new chapter that takes place in Sedona. Having been there several years ago, I realized that memory alone wasn't going to give me the color and texture I needed to complete my scenes. I closed my iBook and left the lap top fan running to cool down its hot little hardrive.

The wooden floorboards creaked under my weight as I crept down the corridor of the old Inn and down the stairs leading into the dining area and study, where a guest computer was set up.

I made hot chocolate in my favorite china cup (which I had also packed) and settled in for a web surfing session that turned into two hours of copious note-taking and photograph reviews.







By the time I was done with my research, my friend and hostess had set out a bowl of salad and homemade pizza on the dining table for supper. I continued taking notes as I ate.


It was hard to return to my room because I knew I'd have to get right back to my story. I felt tired and wanted to watch crap on television, but I also knew that the TV was one of my strongest writer's blocks. I promised myself a nice glass of wine if I wrote just one more paragraph from the research I had completed.

I soon became lost in a jumble of old and new pages because I was weaving a developing sub plot into the text I had already written. Piles of papers sprang up around me as I tried to straighten up the growing chaos in my mind.









I scribbled notes and partial sentences on the back of my synopsis, then on the back of anything that was not an official 'page' of my novel. Once again I lost all sense of time. Three hours later I closed my lap top and gave myself permission to call it a night.

Before crawling into bed, I updated my writing journal and discovered that I had written for a total of 11 hours between 7:00am and 11:30pm. I drew smiley faces and stuck colored foil stars next to each entry for that day. I don't remember how long it took me to fall asleep.

Sweet Escape

Just Keep Writing...

It's been over 16 years since I gave myself the luxury of a writer's retreat. What a mistake!

I've only been here since yesterday afternoon - here being a friend's B&B in Falmouth - and I've already written 1,200 words. I would have written a lot more, but I had an article to complete about local chocolatiers, which took me close to 4 hours by the time I'd written the copy and designed the page for my online magazine. As I was writing the "must do" article, which was already well past deadline, I found the rusted doors of my creative mind begin to creak open, one millimeter at a time. Yeah, it was that slow!

The whole point in coming here was to step out of my usual routine and do nothing but work on my manuscript for 3 days. No animals to feed at 6am, no sons to negotiate with during the mad scramble to get out the door to school/work by 7:30am, no emails to reply to, no phone calls to answer, no classes to teach, no bills to pay, no leaves to rake and no mail to open...nothing to do but write, eat and sleep.

I have less than 2 months to get to 'THE END' and this was the only way I could think of to jump start my creative engine, which totally crapped out a few weeks ago. The more I tried to show up for my writing, the louder and more dramatic the distractions became. I won't list them here, but let's just say they run the gamut from personal, work and family issues, all claiming priority over one another.

'Nuff about that - I'm here now and that's all that matters.

It took a 10 minute drive into Falmouth to help me unwind after I emailed the Chocolatier's story to my editor. I felt frustrated that I'd spent so much time not writing my novel, but I was hungry and craving some of the home made chocolate I had spent all afternoon writing about.

I grabbed a buffalo chicken wrap (to go) and headed for Ghelfi's, on Main Street. As I'd predicted in my article, the woman behind the counter was delighted to chat about the history of the store and invited me to take a tour of where they made all the chocolate and candies.

It was amazing to see the giant copper kettles and collection of wooden stirring paddles in the kitchen. She showed me the family photo's of 3 generations of chocolate makers, and as I stood in the back office, absorbing the heart and soul of the chocolate world I had only imagined hours earlier, I felt my time writing about our local Chocolatiers was worth it.

I do believe in buying local, and supporting the small businesses who have been serving our community for years. I want to do whatever I can to help them keep their doors open, and if writing an article about them can help do that, even in a small way, it's worth the effort.

 I left with a box of assorted samplings - chocolate covered brittle, milk chocolate turtles, dark chocolate cranberry bark, orange creams...in my rush back to my room I missed my turn and wandered around Rte 28A in the dark, singing my heart out to Robbie Williams.

By the time I found the road where I was staying I'd talked myself into NOT taking advantage of the hot tub that was nestled into one corner of the English styled landscaped gardens because I was "too tired"...silly me. How can anyone be too tired for a hot tub?

Ten minutes later I was about to drop my robe and climb into the hot tub when I realized I'd forgotten to put on my bathing suite - I laughed all the way back to my room, kept laughing as I squeezed into my bathing suit and was still laughing as I surrendered to the jets that were churning the water around me. That would have been an epic disaster if my friend had found me wallowing in her spa completely naked - it's okay if it's your own tub, but not at a B&B for god sakes! Get a grip Nic!! I guess I was more tired than I realized...

Tired or not, I poured myself a glass of Pinot Noir, lit my blue "writing candle" and flipped open the lid of my trusted iBook. There was my manuscript, staring right back at me, asking me where the hell I had been all night? I took a deep breath and replied with two hours of non-stop writing.

I don't know how half the bottle of wine disappeared, but by midnight I was ready to crawl into bed and let my characters regroup. They woke me up at 6:30am wanting my attention. For the first time in forever I gave them exactly what they were asking for. I carried my lap top over to the bed, grabbed a bottle of water and started writing again.

Two and a half hours later and I was ready for breakfast. My friend had already set the table for me. I didn't have to do a thing except pour my coffee and juice and fill my bowl with fresh fruit, yogurt and granola.

Now that's a wonderful way to start the day!! I get to repeat this new routine tomorrow :-)

I didn't mean for this to turn into a whole chapter, so I'd best get going...

Even the sun has a schedule!

"Is there anything more loyal than the sun?"

The poet Mary Oliver said that.

I felt like she was talking directly to me. Like I was the only member of the audience who really mattered to her. I'm sure I was the only one in the crowd to scribble these words onto the front cover of my program titled "An Evening With Mary Oliver."

And to think that I almost didn't go.

You know the routine - driving home, dreaming about doing nothing but shaking off the cobwebs of a day that slowly smothers the soul. Hoping that peeling off the 'work clothes' and climbing into those soft pj's could create enough space around the body to finally let it breathe again.

I googled my favorite Mary Oliver poem and printed out two copies. I read and reread the lines that had walked beside me through my divorce as I struggled to rebuild a new life with my sons: "...and you felt the old tug at your ankles. "Mend my life!" each voice cried..."

I had followed Mary's advice and just kept walking until I could hear my own voice rising above the chaos and clatter around me. I "strode deeper and deeper into the world," until I had saved "the only life I could save."

My sister had sent me that poem in an email - she said it reminded her of me. I recognized myself immediately and felt so much relief to know that I wasn't the only person in the world walking away to save my life. I felt a sense of community with a writer I had never met, until last week.

Mary refused to sign my copies of the poem, citing something about potential copyright issues. (I'd wanted to send my sister a signed copy for Christmas.) Mary happily signed an official collection of poems for me instead. As I watched her hand guide her pen across the page, it struck me how easy it was for a writer to create magic with words. How simple it is to construct sentences that can help people in ways the writer could never imagine.

I didn't tell her why I loved The Journey.

The sun waited about thirty minutes after I got up the next morning before rising over the Atlantic. I brewed the tea, packed my lunch and hurried back into my work schedule.

I was driving home as the sun set in my rear view mirror. I felt frustrated because I wanted to hurry home to write my novel, but I was teaching instead. I was helping others to birth their own novels. How ironic is that?

Since my last entry I've been unable to crawl back into my writing schedule. I could blame it on the pc virus that took me 14 hours to locate then destroy, but I write my novel on my iBook, so that's not a valid excuse. I could also try to blame it on the one year anniversary of the death of my neighbor, who was like my surrogate mother. This had sent me into my kitchen to roast a turkey and potatoes the exact same way my nieghbor and my mum had roasted them for me.

But there are no excuses for blowing off my writing schedule. There is just the plain fact that I have been wading though emotional molasses these last two weeks and it's time to haul my boots back onto solid ground.

If the sun can show up for her schedule every day, for thousands and thousands of years, then I think I can try to show up for mine.

No Elelphants Allowed

I'm not anti-elephant. In fact, I love them.

But whenever I think about sitting down to write my novel I feel a giant weight plop onto that already aching area at the back of my neck. This weight is HUGE!!! It presses down on my shoulders and pushes my whole body into the ground until I feel like I am stuck in mud. I try to shake it off, do a few neck rolls, take a deep breath or two, but once that enormous mass of guilt has settled its rump on my back it just won't budge.

So, I have a new policy when it comes to elephants.

They are no longer invited into my writing space. The lavender and blue room in the right hand corner of my little house is officially off-limits to the grumpy old elephant that has been following me around for years.

There's simply not enough room for me, my characters and a great big lump of "You shouldn't be wasting your time in here talking to people in your head when there are REALLY IMPORTANT JOBS to do!" Nope. That little writing room of mine is just too small for anyone but my novel and the writing candle I recently bought that signals the beginning and end of my writing sessions.

My writing room is gorgeous - it's my play room - filled with all the creative touch stones I learned to collect when I was teaching the Artist's Way. There is not one inch of that room that says "You shouldn't be in here - you should be doing...blah blah blah". My writing room is comfy, calm and safe for me to open up my lap top and just sink into the world that lives in my head every single waking hour.

Now that I've got used to closing the door I don't feel bad about leaving my elephant outside. It's always waiting for me. Silently, patiently waiting to remind me of all the things I have yet to do before I can even think about writing again.

Funny thing is, I don't worry about when I'm going to get the chance to write again. I have given myself the luxury of a writing schedule - something I have never been able to stick to before. I don't know why this time is different. But it is.

When my writing time arrives, which is six days a week, and twice on Tuesdays (!!) I stop whatever I am doing, head down the hall to my study, shut my door, light my candle and take a deep breath. The silence is wonderful. No impatient nudging at my shoulders, no bumping heads against my door, no annoyed stomping of feet - my elephant has learned to give it up - to let me have this sacred writing time all to myself,

Today is Friday, the only day on my weekly schedule that does NOT include a writing session.

I want to write today, but I don't know if I will. I don't know, yet, if my elephant will revolt if I don't follow my schedule, and if it does can I blame it? After a week of telling it to behave, to wait outside, to stop bugging me, this beast has stepped aside for 2-3 hours a day because it knows it will have plenty of time to chase me around my life as soon as my writing session is over. Perhaps I have to hold up my end of this bargain and stick to the schedule. Perhaps not.

I'll let you know tomorrow.